


Every Road to Recovery Starts at the Breakdown

by iron_parkr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Fluff and Angst, Panic Attacks, Parent Pepper Potts, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker has PTSD, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 01:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_parkr/pseuds/iron_parkr
Summary: MAJOR ENDGAME SPOILERS! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.********Sometimes Peter thinks he’s okay. Sometimes he isn’t.Sometimes he can make it through the day without breaking down, without feeling like the world is collapsing in on him. Sometimes he can’t.On the days when Peter thinks he’s okay, he brushes away the thought of the counselors. He doesn’t need them.Until he does.





	Every Road to Recovery Starts at the Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what this is supposed to be. I started writing this the day after I saw Endgame and just used it as my therapy because you're really not supposed to get this attached to fictional characters but Endgame still has me all kinds of messed up. Hopefully you enjoy it.

Sometimes Peter thinks he’s okay. Sometimes he isn’t.

Sometimes he can make it through the day without breaking down, without feeling like the world is collapsing in on him. Sometimes he can’t. He’s not the only one.

It feels like every other period someone has to go to Guidance to talk to one of the counselors. It’s become as normal as leaving to go to the bathroom. No one thinks any less of the kids who can’t sit through a lesson without hiding their faces.

Peter is one of those kids. He’s accepted it, and for the most part, he’s been dealing. He can usually last until the end of school, when he goes back to the apartment and lets it out in solitude. More often than not, May will come home and find him curled up on the couch in an MIT hoodie, his eyes red and vacant. She’ll sit with him and talk to him, whispering softly, until he finds the strength and energy to finish the day.

School takes everything he has. Over and over again, Peter has to force himself to pay attention, to copy down the notes on the board, to listen to the teacher’s words as they float lazily through the air. He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes down and does what he’s supposed to do. Even that is exhausting.

He knows the counseling services the school provides are free, but he can’t bring himself to go to them. Yes, they’ve been trained to help those that disappeared cope with being back, to help those that were left behind readjust to the semi-normal, but they can’t help him. He knows this. They aren’t trained to help Spider-Man. They couldn’t understand. No one could. Except—except Mr. Stark.

But Mr. Stark is gone.

On the days when Peter thinks he’s okay, he brushes away the thought of the counselors. He doesn’t need them.

Until he does.

It’s in the middle of History. They’re not actually learning about Ancient Greece, but the conversation veers in that direction because Mr. McDonnell got to talking about philosophers like Aristotle and Socrates and kind of went off on a tangent about the Greek gods. Peter only half listens. His mind just doesn’t have the same capacity for attention as it did.

He’s halfheartedly doodling in the margins of his notebook when he hears it.

There’s a list of words that teachers and students alike try to avoid. An unspoken rule. Words like “dust” or “Decimation.” Words that might make someone have a panic attack during Health or Chemistry. Those aren’t uncommon now, but sick as it may sound, the random occurrences are far better and easier to manage than the ones brought on by an accidental slip up.

This word isn’t on that list, though. This word is about as regular as any other word to everyone except Peter Parker.

“Titan.”

Peter freezes as soon as it registers in his muddled brain. His pen stills, leaving an ink blot that grows larger in size with each passing moment. After a second, two seconds, three, he reminds himself to breathe. Trembling hands place his pen on his desk and cover his face, plunging his vision into darkness. He knows he won’t get in trouble with Mr. McDonnell for not paying attention—Julianna had to leave class two days earlier and he offered to send her the notes with a sympathetic smile.

By the time Peter picks his head up from the cradle of his palms, he feels halfway okay. His hands are shaking so hard he can’t write and the  _thump thump thump_ of his heart feels like he’s a bass drum in the middle of a rock concert, but it’ll fade with time. They always do.

When the bell rings five minutes later, Peter drags himself out of his chair, haphazardly shoves his things into his backpack, and forces himself, like every day, to go to his next class.

The moment he drops into his desk in English, Peter’s eyelids grow heavy. English had never been his favorite subject in school; he’d gotten in trouble back in middle school for dozing off more times than he could count. His late night with May doesn’t help matters much either; she’d kept him company in the early hours of the morning when he woke up in a cold sweat, screaming for the one person who couldn’t help him anymore.

As Mrs. Brooks begins her lecture about whatever Shakespeare play they’re about to start reading, Peter folds his arms on the top of his desk and rests his head on them, closing his eyes.

 _Just a minute_ , he thinks. _That’s all I need._

A second later, he shoots bolt upright in his chair. He never sleeps in class; he’s not about to start now. Peter shakes his head to rid himself of the drowsiness so he can focus on Mrs. Brooks. But when his eyes adjust and he stares up at the front of the room, she’s not there.

Doctor Strange has his back to Peter like he’s writing something on the board. When Peter tries to call out to him, his mouth won’t open. He lifts his fingers up to his lips and finds them sewn shut. Eyes wide, he looks back at Strange, who’d turned around to face him.

“There was no other way,” he says, so casually he might have been talking about Romeo and Juliet’s untimely end.

Then he disappears, crumbles to dust like he did on Titan, and a sudden breeze carries his remains out the door.

Immediately, a hot fire ignites in Peter’s stomach. It crawls up into his chest and spreads to his legs, his arms, his fingers. Peter rises from his chair and stumbles away from the desk as the burning sensation overwhelms him, eclipsing his senses until the only thing he understands is excruciating pain. As he tries to scream through the seam between his lips, he forgets his name, who he is, where he is. He is pain and nothing else.

“Peter!”

The voice cuts through, right to his very core. Peter struggles to open his eyes, weighed down by the knowledge that he’s going to disappear again, but when he does, he finds a terrified Mr. Stark standing in front of him, arms outstretched to help him. The desks are gone, leaving only the two of them in the otherwise empty classroom.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark says again, “I’ve got you. I got you, kid. You’re gonna be okay.”

His legs start to fade away and he collapses into Mr. Stark’s embrace, circling his arms around the man and holding him tightly. He never wants to let go. He can’t let go.

“I don’t wanna go,” he tries to tell him, but the words can’t make it past his throat.

The pain doubles, triples, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut as the rest of him crumbles to dust, imploding like a star that’s been burning too hot for far too long. Peter is burning like a star and he can’t focus on anything else.

Then, all at once, the pain ceases. The fire in his stomach cools. When Peter hesitantly cracks open his eyes, he finds himself whole again. Mr. Stark isn’t holding him anymore. In fact, Mr. Stark is gone, and Peter’s alone in the classroom.

To his right, he sees a bright orange light and his head snaps over to look at it. Doctor Strange stands in the middle of one of his portals, beckoning Peter to come with him. As soon as Peter makes up his mind to follow, the scene shifts.

He’s in the ruins of the Avengers compound upstate. All around him is fighting, aliens and warriors, both the survivors and the revived, locked in vicious combat. Peter scans the battlefield, wondering where—

A blinding light envelops the desolate landscape. As it subsides, Peter’s eyes find Mr. Stark on his knees in the middle of the chaos. Peter tries to scream for him, but nothing comes out.

“Mr. Stark!” he yells again, voice muffled and garbled and horrible. His legs move before he tells them to, to bring him to his mentor, his friend, his… his… “Tony!”

It feels like he stepped in quicksand. The harder he pushes, the faster he sinks into the ground. He’s trapped. In quicksand, in time, in a never-ending attempt to get to Mr. Stark.

Peter tries to call out to him again, but his mouth, still sewn shut, fills with sand. It coats his throat, choking him like the dust, reminding him that he’ll never reach Mr. Stark in time, he’ll never save him. How can he if he can’t even save himself?

🕸⎊🕸

Peter’s startled awake by a hand on his head. He shoots up to a sitting position, wide-eyed and gasping for air. Clawing at his neck to rid himself of the sand building up in his throat, Peter lets out a high pitched, confused whine.

“Honey, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!”

That voice. He knows that voice. It’s soft and familiar, full of a thousand sleepless nights and stomach bugs and last minute dinner trips to Mr. Delmar’s. Slowly, Peter comes to himself and lets his hands drop into his lap. The owner of the voice takes one into her own hand, cradling it gently.

His brain finally catches up to the rest of his body and the nurse’s office comes into sharp focus. Below him, the cracked leather bed with a single crisp sheet. Above, an intensely bright light that brings on the beginnings of what he knows will be a pounding headache. And to his right, Aunt May, sitting in a metal chair and gazing at him intently, worriedly.

She reaches out her free hand and cups his cheek. “Hey, kiddo.”

“May? What—what are you—”

“Easy there, Pete, slow down,” she says. Anxiety tugs at her features, making the lines on her face more prominent, but her kind smile holds only love. “What do you remember?”

Peter’s brows scrunch together as he tries to recall. “I-I was in English and I wanted to close my eyes for a bit ‘cause I was tired. But then when I woke up—or thought I woke up—I was alone. I mean, the doctor guy was there but that was it. Then he—he—”

He swallows hard. May squeezes his hand.

“It’s okay,” she assures him. “You don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to.” She pauses a moment. Her voice drops to a whisper as she asks, “Do you know what triggered it this time?”

“Yeah.” Peter draws in a slow breath. His heart starts pounding in his chest, thudding out a horrible rhythm. “Mr. McDonnell—we were talking about Ancient Greece and the gods and he said the name of—that place.”

May nods in understanding before pulling him close, resting her hand on the back of his head.  Familiar and comforting, her fingers run through his hair like they did when he first realized his parents weren’t coming to pick him up, like when Ben died, like when Peter stood at the edge of a beautiful lake and watched Mr. Stark’s wreath float away. May is the only person who can keep him grounded these days.

“It’s okay, honey,” she whispers. “You’re not there anymore. You’re back home. You’re safe.”

“I know,” he whispers back, holding onto her like a lifeline.

They separate just as the nurse walks into the room.

“Good, you’re awake,” she says. She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “How are you feeling, Peter?”

He shrugs. “Fine, I guess.”

“You gave us quite a scare,” the nurse tells him. “One of the boys who brought you down said you hit your head pretty hard on your way down.”

“Oh.” Peter reaches up to feel the back of his head and finds a small lump that’ll probably be gone by the evening.

The nurse takes a seat across from him and May. “Do you remember what might have caused this? Maybe a word from the list?”

Peter doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not too keen on telling a stranger that the reason for his panic attacks and nightmares isn’t on the list. He glances at May, who tries for a reassuring smile. Deep breath, deep breath.

“Uh, yeah, it was,” he lies.

“I see,” she says, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Have you seen any of the counselors here at school?”

“Yes,” he answers too quickly.

Her eyes narrow at him, like she knows he’s not being truthful, but for whatever reason, she doesn’t push the matter. Instead, she takes out a pen and a piece of paper.

“Well, you’re not seriously hurt as far as I can tell, but I’m gonna let your aunt take you home for the rest of today,” she explains. She signs the bit of paper in big looping letters and hands it to May. “Make sure you rest up tonight. No strenuous activity in case you have a concussion that I couldn’t find. When you come back to school tomorrow, I want you to go to one of the counselors. Just show up and ask to talk to someone, they accept walk-ins. And I’ll know if you don’t go.”

She fixes him with a no-nonsense look.

Peter gulps and nods.

When they’re finished in the nurse’s office, May leads him to the front office to sign him out and then down the massive stone steps in front of Midtown Science and Technology. Apparently, Ned had stopped by earlier with his bag and jacket, just in case.

Neither of them speaks the whole way home. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, it’s just… kind of awkward, if Peter’s being honest with himself. He has no idea why, though. It’s been this way since… well, since he came back from essentially being dead.

May unlocks the door to the apartment. The afternoon light floods the living room, leaving everything awash in golden yellow. With a steady arm around Peter’s back, May walks him over to the couch and they both sit down facing each other. May lifts a hand to brush back some of his curls from his forehead.

“You need a haircut,” she remarks. “Starting to look like a hippie.”

Peter lightly pushes her hand away. “I do not!”

A smile appears on her face for a brief moment, then disappears, replaced by a frown that adds a couple of years to her features. Peter never thinks of May as old. Sure, she’s got a few gray hairs maybe, but he never notices them. She’s just as beautiful as she was the day his parents dropped him off with her and Ben. Not just on the outside, either. He knows she never asked to have to take care of a kid, let alone a kid who wasn’t even related to her by blood. After Ben passed, she could have walked away and left him to the mercy of the system, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t. They may not be blood, but that’s never bothered them. Family is family.

“Peter,” she says finally, her voice soft and full of concern, “you told me you were going to the counselors at school.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, honey,” she assures him. “I just want you to be healthy, that’s all. And these nightmares aren’t healthy. You need to talk to someone qualified to help you.”

Peter hangs his head. “They can’t help me.”

“Why’s that?”

Glancing up at her through his lashes, Peter tries to keep the bitter taste out of his mouth as he explains, “Because they can’t help Spider-Man. Spider-Man’s supposed to be strong and tough.”

“Spider-Man is also a human being,” May reminds him. “A kid who’s been through more than anyone should have to endure at your age.”

“But I can’t tell them that!” Peter protests, meeting her gaze. “Too many people know about it already, there’s no way I’m telling some stranger who could blab it to the whole world!”

“I understand that Peter, but this has to stop.” May’s expression is rigid and there are tears in her eyes. “You have to learn to cope with what happened. With everything that’s happened. Tony wouldn’t want—”

“You don’t know what he would want!” Peter yells, jumping to his feet. His chest heaves under the strain of his emotions.

May’s silent for a moment. When she does speak, her response is quiet. “You’re right. I don’t.”

She looks at him and for the first time in his life, Peter can’t decipher what he sees, can’t get a read on her emotions.

“What I do know,” she says slowly, “is that I want you to get better. Ned wants you to heal. Pepper wants you to find peace. I’m sure Morgan wants you to be the big brother Tony knew you would be. We’re not asking you to forget any of it happened or forget Tony. We just want you to be healthy, Peter. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

May stands up and gives him one last glance before going to her room, leaving him hovering over the couch and on the edge of another breakdown.

🕸⎊🕸

The next day at school, Peter forgoes lunch and walks down to Guidance. With each step closer, he can feel his heartbeat growing louder in his ears, can feel the anxiety rising like a tidal wave, threatening to swallow him whole. He wants to turn around and run back to the cafeteria, though he despises being there nowadays; too many people, too much noise, too high a chance his heightened senses will get overloaded and send him spiraling into a panic attack, which happens more often now than it did even in his earlier days of being Spider-Man.

But Peter places one foot in front of the other and marches down the hall. He’d made a promise to himself the night before. May was right—he needs to get better. And he won’t do that if he doesn’t talk to someone.

Spider-Man or not, he needs help.

A woman sits at the desk across from the entrance, typing away at her computer. She looks up when Peter knocks on the door frame.

“Hi, there,” she greets, smiling warmly. “Can I help you?”

Peter tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Uh, yeah. I was wondering if I could—I mean—”

“You want to talk with one of the counselors?” she finishes for him. Peter nods. “Gotcha. You can have a seat and I’ll see if anyone’s available right now.”

Glancing to his right, Peter sees a row of plastic chairs lined along the wall. He chooses the one closest to him and collapses into it, putting his head in his hands. School is already draining enough, but this? This is taking every ounce of strength he has. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. The only reason he even set foot in the office is because of May. Because he can’t—won’t—let her down.

 _This is stupid,_  he thinks. _Why am I even here? I don’t need to talk about my feelings. I’m sure other people are going through worse stuff than this. I’m just going to waste someone’s time._

Just as Peter decides that this whole thing is a waste of time and he should go back to lunch, a voice calls out, “Hey, hon?”

Peter picks his head up from his hands and sees the receptionist looking at him, a certain kindness in her expression.

“Dr. Michaels is free,” she says, pointing to the room to her right.

Thanking her, Peter pushes himself from the chair and shuffles across the tiny space. A wave of nausea washes over him, but he sucks in a breath and enters the room.

It’s small but comfortable. Cozy and inviting. There’s a couple of plants scattered on the filing cabinets in the corner. A plush armchair faces the most inviting couch Peter has ever seen, complete with big fluffy pillows and a throw blanket. In the armchair sits a slightly balding man with round glasses, who stands up.

“Welcome,” he says with a smile. “I’m Dr. Michaels.”

They shake hands.

“Peter.”

“Take a seat,” he says, indicating the couch. “Feel free to grab a pillow or the blanket. Most people love those.”

Still on the fence, Peter carefully lowers himself onto the couch and sinks down into the cushion. His hands fall to his lap and he sits almost ramrod straight. He wants to relax, really, but he can’t.

“So,” Dr. Michaels starts, “any particular reason you wanted to talk?”

Peter shrugs. “My aunt. Pretty sure she’ll kill me if I come home today and tell her I didn’t come here.”

“And why’s that?”

“She’s just worried, I guess,” Peter explains. “I—I've been having these nightmares. And I think they’re getting worse. I fell asleep in English yesterday by accident and when I woke up I was in the nurse’s office.”

“Did you have a nightmare?” Dr. Michaels asks

Peter gives a nod.

Leaning forward a little, Dr. Michaels presses, “Do you remember it?”

 _Every single detail_ , Peter wants to say. He wants to confess his sins like he’s in church and it’s the end of the world, to tell every listening ear what a failure he is.

He doesn’t.

“Not really,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck.

Dr. Michaels studies him for a moment and Peter can almost see the gears shifting in his head, analyzing and calculating. A second later, the doctor relaxes in his chair.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Peter,” he says. “We could just wrap this up right now and you can go home and tell your aunt whatever she wants to hear. That’s up to you. But if you really want help, if you really want to make these nightmares stop, or at least become easier to handle, then you need to be straight with me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Peter doesn’t respond. He stares down at his hands like they might hold the key to unlocking his heart.

But they don’t.

A minute passes in silence. Over the course of sixty seconds, Peter tries to say something, anything. He opens his mouth again and again, ready to will the words off his tongue, only to close it and repeat the cycle. When it becomes clear that the words really aren’t coming, Dr. Michaels sighs.

“Why don’t you head back to class, Peter?” he suggests, rubbing his forehead. “Take some time to reflect and figure out why you’re here. Not just because your aunt told you to. Why you chose to walk into this room today.”

Filled with shame and a little bit of guilt, Peter nods mutely and rises from the couch. His mind is swirling with thoughts indistinguishable from one another and he feels the exhaustion he’s become so accustomed to tugging at his whole body.

As he reaches the edge of the room, Dr. Michaels’s voice stops him. “Peter?”

He glances back over his shoulder.

“My door’s always open,” says Dr. Michaels. He doesn’t look mad. Hopeful, maybe. Perhaps a bit disappointed, but not with Peter.

Nodding once more, Peter faces forward and walks out of Guidance with his shoulders hunched and a weight on his chest.

🕸⎊🕸

When Peter arrives back at the apartment after school, he immediately kicks off his shoes and drops onto the couch. It’s Friday, which means Happy will be coming by around dinner to take him up to the lake house for the weekend. Miss Potts—Pepper, he corrects himself internally—wanted him to get to know Morgan and just get out of the city for a little bit, so she and May scheduled a few visits here and there until the end of the school year. Peter doesn’t know what summer will bring, but he’ll figure it out when it arrives, just like he always does.

Peter glances at his phone. Quarter of four. Enough time for a quick nap. He would protest against himself, but he’s pretty sure he’ll collapse if he doesn’t grab at least a few minutes of shuteye before what’s sure to be a long, draining weekend.

He loves Morgan, he really does, he just… misses Mr. Stark.

Knowing that May will be home in time to wake him so he won’t be late for Happy, Peter grabs the blanket on the back of the couch, wraps it around himself snugly, and closes his eyes, allowing his tired and aching body to relax as he drifts off.

He has a dream.

Of course, these days when he dreams they usually turn into nightmares, into a bizarre re-run of all the bad stuff that’s happened. But this dream is different.

He’s in his old lab at the compound. Mr. Stark had gifted it to him for his sixteenth birthday so he could work on his Spidey stuff without getting it mixed up with any of Tony’s inventions and tinkerings. It looks just like he remembers—a little messy, a tiny bit unorganized, but totally and completely his own.

Someone sits at his desk in front of him, bent low over scattered papers. Peter doesn’t dare to hope, but he knows that disheveled clothing, that mess of hair that always came with working long hours together on new tech. He tries to call out to him, but his voice won’t work.

Before he can move closer to confirm his suspicions, the person in his chair swivels around to face him.

Mr. Stark.

Smiling, healthy, without the dark circles under his eyes that Peter’s used to. The right side of his body bears no scars, no remnants of what happened on the battlefield. He looks… rejuvenated is the only word that comes to mind.

“Hey, Pete,” he says softly. Standing up, Mr. Stark makes his way over to Peter, who can do nothing but stare open-mouthed. “I’m okay. Really. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay, too. It’ll take some time, but you will be. I promise.”

There are tears in his eyes as Tony looks at Peter, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “Take care of Pepper for me, alright? I know she can take care of herself but, hey, it’s always nice having someone to watch your back. And Morgan, too. I told her all about you, she already adores you. Just—make sure she knows how much her daddy loved her, please.”

He takes a moment to compose himself.

“You’ll get through all this, Peter,” he says with all the confidence in the world. “You’re strong and stubborn as hell. But just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time. It’s okay to ask for help, kid. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t need help sometimes.”

Mr. Stark smirks at him, but there’s a lingering mix of both sadness and maybe… hope in his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Pete. I don’t want to see you any sooner than I have to outside of this, you hear me? Morgan needs her big brother.” He sucks in a breath. “I’m proud of you, Underoos. Never forget that.”

🕸⎊🕸

Peter’s startled awake by May’s hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. His eyes dart this way and that as he tries to get his bearings. Whatever he’s lying on sinks under his weight. The blanket is somehow at his feet.

Right. He fell asleep on the couch.

“Come on, honey,” May is saying, “you have to get ready for Happy. We don’t want to make him any grumpier than he usually is.”

While May laughs at her own joke, Peter thinks back to the dream he had. It felt so real. He remembers everything Mr. Stark said, every word and pause, in vivid detail. Shaking his head, Peter stands up from the couch and heads to his room to pack his bag, all the while wondering…

Was that really Mr. Stark?

🕸⎊🕸

By the time he and Happy make it to the house on the lake, the sun is beginning to set, leaving everything in a shade of gold. Pepper and Morgan stand on the wooden porch when they pull up, and as soon as Happy kills the engine, Morgan bounds down the stairs and rushes over to the passenger side door.

“Petey!” she cries.

Very carefully, so he won’t hit Morgan, Peter opens his door and steps out of the car. He finds himself smiling despite his exhaustion as he crouches down to her height.

“What’s up, Mo? You excited for this weekend?” he asks, brushing some hair out of her face.

She gives him a big nod. “Mommy said we can take the boat out on the water tomorrow if there’s no rain!”

“That sounds awesome!” Peter says. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I’m so hungry I could eat a whole cow. Why don’t we head inside and get some grub, huh?”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Morgan is grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the house. Peter doesn’t know what it is about this sweet little girl that seems to melt his troubles away, but he appreciates it with everything he has. When they reach the porch, Peter stops to give Pepper a hug.

“It’s good to see you, Peter,” she says. They hold each other tightly and Peter buries his face into the crook of her neck. If there’s anyone who understands how he feels inside, it’s Pepper.

“You, too,” he responds, trying not to let his voice crack.

They pull away and Peter’s eyes find Pepper’s. Underneath the strong exterior he knows she puts up for Morgan’s sake, he can see a kaleidoscope of emotions. At that moment, he almost says something. He almost opens his mouth to tell her about his dream, about Tony. Before he can decide to, Morgan tugs on his hand and leads him inside, chattering on about the imaginary picnic she had the day before and telling him excitedly that Mommy made spaghetti for dinner, her favorite.

The remainder of the evening passes by in a blur until Peter finds himself sitting on the living room couch, a mug in his hands. He’d come downstairs after Morgan went to bed and, knowing full well he probably wouldn’t fall asleep for a long while, made himself some hot chocolate, which is already gone. Mr. Stark always said he was too young to drink coffee.

“Peter?”

Pepper’s voice makes him jump. He looks over his shoulder and sees her hovering at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in her pajamas.

“What are you doing up?” she asks. “It’s after midnight.”

He shrugs. “Can’t sleep.”

“Me, too,” Pepper says. She walks over and sits down on the couch facing him. He turns his body as well. “What’s your poison?”

“I took a nap after school before I came here,” he responds, staring at the chocolate dregs in his mug. “Plus…” He takes a steadying breath. “I get—I get nightmares a lot.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Pepper doesn’t deserve to have his problems dumped on her when she’s got her own to deal with. She shouldn’t have to hear about his stupid bad dreams.

“I do, too,” Pepper says softly.

Peter raises his head and stares at her. “Really?”

She nods.

“Everyone gets nightmares, sweetheart,” she explains. Peter tries not to blush when she calls him ‘sweetheart.’ “They’re part of life. Especially when you have lives as crazy as ours can get. Even Tony had nightmares for years, and he—”

“I saw him!” Peter blurts out, cutting her off. “Mr. Stark, I mean. I had a dream about him.”

“You did?”

It’s Peter’s turn to nod. “This afternoon. He was in my old lab at the compound. He said… he said he’s okay, and that I’m gonna be okay. Eventually. He told me to take care of you and Morgan, too. To make sure she knows how much he loved her. He told me that it’s okay to ask for help and that he was—he was proud of me.”

Pepper’s hands fly up to her mouth, shaking against her lips. In her eyes are unshed tears. But they’re not sad tears, they’re happy ones.

“D’you think it was really him?” Peter asks.

Drawing in a breath to compose herself, Pepper gives him a watery smile and says, “I think it was, honey. I saw him, too. Last night.” She almost laughs at his comically wide eyes. “He told me pretty much the same thing, except he said that _I_ have to take care of _you_ because you’re such a troublemaker.”

Peter bows his head in embarrassment, but he can’t fight the grin on his face. Even from beyond the grave, Mr. Stark is still looking out for him. It’s a wonderful feeling.

“That’s my husband,” Pepper muses, “always full of surprises.”

“Got that right,” Peter says.

They don’t speak for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s company. A lot of the reason why Peter loves coming up to the lake house, he thinks, is because of moments like this one, when two people, who would never have met if it weren’t for Mr. Stark, can sit together in silence and understand each other perfectly. It reminds him that he’s not alone in his grief, in his pain, in his long road to recovery.

“We should get to bed,” Pepper remarks, shaking Peter out of his thoughts. “Lord knows Morgan will want to do anything and everything with you here. She’s been talking about this weekend nonstop since the last time you stayed over.”

Peter smiles. Man, he really does love that kid.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he says. Pushing himself off the couch, Peter takes his mug to the sink before heading for the stairs. At the bottom, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Good night, Pepper.”

“Good night, Peter,” she returns.

“And Pepper?”

She meets his gaze.

“Thanks,” he says before he disappears up the steps.

That night, for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t dream.

🕸⎊🕸

Monday morning dawns bright and clear. After a weekend of running after Morgan and playing every game imaginable with her, Peter is exhausted, but it’s a good kind of exhausted. He also knows what he needs to do now, secret identity be damned.

“Dr. Michaels?”

Peter lingers in the doorway of the tiny room, his hand shoved into his jacket pocket. The doctor glances up from his chair. His bifocals reflect the harsh LED light from above.

“Peter!” he greets, surprise coloring his voice. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Yeah, I, uh…” Peter trails off before clearing his throat. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course!”

Peter takes a seat on the ridiculously comfortable couch and grabs one of the pillows on his right, securing it under his arms. Across from him, Dr. Michaels wipes off his glasses and fixes his gaze on Peter.

“So,” the doctor starts, “you ready to talk?”

Nodding, Peter takes a deep breath and says, “I am. But first, I need to tell you something. You have to swear to keep it a secret.”

Dr. Michaels shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, I can try, Peter, but if this secret is harmful to you or others—”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Peter assures him. “I mean, kind of, but I’m okay. And my aunt already knows about it so I’m fine.” He swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “So do I have your word?”

For a second, Dr. Michaels doesn’t answer and Peter tries to fight the urge to squirm under his skeptical look. Then, with a sigh, the man says, “Okay. Whatever it is, I promise not to tell anyone.”

Relief floods through Peter.

“Awesome, thank you,” he says. Before he can change his mind, he sucks in a breath, meets Dr. Michaels’s eyes, and admits, “I’m Spider-Man.”

Silence.

Peter can’t hear anything over the blood roaring in his ears, his heart thumping faster than it has in some time. The lack of response from Dr. Michaels stretches on and on and Peter wishes he would just say something, _anything_.

Finally, Dr. Michaels pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I thought we talked about this, Peter,” he says. “You have to be truthful if you want me to help you.”

“But I am telling the truth!” Peter protests. “I swear! Here, look—”

He fumbles for a moment, trying to figure out how to prove his statement. The suit is back at home, as are his web shooters; he hasn’t used them since…

An idea pops into his head and he hopes it’ll be enough proof.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the shades are down on the window, Peter stands up from the couch, right in front of Dr. Michaels. He tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. It’s just high enough that touching it would be impossible for someone of his height.

“Peter, please,” Dr. Michaels pleads. “Either you want my help or not. This isn’t a time for—”

The sentence dies in his throat when Peter pushes off the ground and jumps into the air with his hand outstretched. As soon as he touches the ceiling, his hand sticks to it, leaving him hanging freely until he pulls the rest of his body into an upside down crouch. He glances down at Dr. Michaels, who stares wide-eyed.

Peter smirks. “Told you.”

Dropping back down to the ground, he runs a hand through his unruly curls and reclaims his seat on the couch and the pillow he’d been holding. As he settles back in, he tries to fight a laugh at Dr. Michaels’s shocked expression.

“Well,” says the doctor, clearing his throat, “that was… unexpected. Is this is relevant to why you’re here today?”

“Absolutely,” Peter assures him.

Then, with his heart still pounding out of his chest, Peter tells Dr. Michaels the story of how he got his powers. About the morning after when he thought he was going crazy. About the night he decided to become Spider-Man—not because he wanted to, but because he had a responsibility. His voice catches in his throat when he reaches the part with Ben, but he forces himself to keep going. By the time he finishes, the weight on his chest feels just a little bit lighter.

Dr. Michaels is a good listener. He doesn’t interrupt unless to clarify something Peter said, and he focuses his full attention on Peter’s words.

“That’s quite a tale,” Dr. Michaels remarks once Peter is done. “I’m assuming there’s more to it?”

Peter chuckles lightly. “You have no idea.”

“We can save those for another time, then, I think,” Dr. Michaels says, thoughtful. “Thank you for being honest with me, Peter. That’s the only way I can help you deal with your… nightmares, you said?” Peter nods. “Right. For now, until our next meeting, I want you to try to keep a journal of some sort where you can write down these nightmares. It’s okay if you can’t recall everything, just as much as you can remember. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter answers.

“Good.” Dr. Michaels gives him a warm smile. “Thank you again, Peter. I look forward to hearing the rest of your story. Now, why don’t you head back to class? And feel free to take a mint on your way out!”

🕸⎊🕸

Over the course of the next month or so, Peter visits Dr. Michaels once a week, every week. Each time, he adds on to his story. He tells Dr. Michaels about the trip to Germany and fighting against Captain America. He recounts the two months afterward when he tried in vain to prove himself to Mr. Stark so that he, too, could be an Avenger. He discusses his search to find the guy with the wings and how he turned out to be Liz’s dad and how it felt to be crushed by a building.

Little by little, he starts to feel better. The nightmares don’t stop, but the number of times he wakes up screaming decreases to once or twice a week. He writes it all down in the journal, just like Dr. Michaels told him to. Things begin to improve.

It all comes crashing to a halt one day in his Astronomy class.

The course itself is split into two sections—Oceanography and Astronomy. The Oceanography portion ends after the midterm exams, which is when they begin learning about the constellations and satellites and space.

Peter hadn’t been to space when he picked the course.

The first day of class, after introductions and icebreakers, they watch a video about the International Space Station, probably to get them excited to learn more. Peter used to share that enthusiasm.

He manages to keep himself together until the very end. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Fists clenched on his desk, his nails digging half-moons into his palms.

When he sees the final frame of the video—a wide shot of Earth from the perspective of the ISS—he loses his resolve. His breath comes in sharp gasps and his hand shakes against his mouth. As his vision begins to tunnel, his mind leaves the classroom, flying higher and higher and higher until he’s looking down on the Earth from the side of the giant flying donut. Everything is so small and insignificant. _He’s_ small and insignificant. How can he save the wizard, like Mr. Stark asked?

There’s a voice in his ear.

_“Pete, you gotta let go. I’m gonna catch you.”_

Mr. Stark.

“But you said—save the wizard—” Peter wheezes.

He’s too high up. There isn’t enough air. He can’t get enough air, he can’t—he can’t breathe. He needs to breathe. Why can’t he breathe?

He rips off his mask and greedily sucks in a breath, but it’s not enough. It’s still not enough. He needs more.

“Peter!”

This voice is different. Far away, distant. Didn’t he catch up to the ship already?

“M’ster Stark?” Peter slurs.

He can’t remember which way is up and which is down anymore.

A third voice registers through the fog in his mind as it calls out, “Give him room! Somebody call the nurse!”

Peter’s eyes roll back and he falls off the giant donut, but this time, no one is there to catch him.

🕸⎊🕸

He sees Mr. Stark again. They’re at the lake house, sitting on the beach by the canoes. Everything is peaceful, quiet. The surface of the water lays undisturbed, reflecting the bright afternoon sun. In the trees surrounding them, the birds give them a concert full of melodies and harmonies that both blend together perfectly and create a wonderful dissonance at the same time.

“You’re doing good, Pete,” Mr. Starks says. His gaze follows a fish swimming nearby. The tension is gone from his shoulders and he looks years younger. As the fish disappears into the depths of the lake, Mr. Stark turns to look at him with a smile. “I am so proud of you for reaching out to that counselor. That took guts.”

 _But it didn’t work_ , Peter wants to protest. _I still had another panic attack. I still feel weak._

The words won’t form in his mouth.

As if he can hear Peter’s thoughts, Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively. “You can’t let that little episode get to you, kid. These things take time. Progress is progress, no matter how small it may seem. You’ll get there one day, I promise.”

Mr. Stark takes a deep breath as his eyes wander back to the idyllic scene before them. He doesn’t speak for a moment or two. Just sits next to Peter and enjoys the sunlight on his face.

“It doesn’t get much better than this, does it?” Mr. Stark says finally. “Sun, sand, and my Spiderling, all in one place. All that’s missing is my beautiful wife and my baby girl. But that’ll come in time, I know.” He lets out a sigh, long and deep and contented, before turning back to Peter. “Don’t forget what I said. Take care of them for me. I’m countin’ on you, Pete.”

Mr. Stark holds his gaze for what feels like an eternity, and Peter drinks in every detail of the man next to him, determined to remember this for the rest of his life. A soft smile worms its way onto Mr. Stark’s face, and it’s the last thing Peter sees before the scene in front of him disappears.

🕸⎊🕸

“Why isn’t he waking up?”

“He will, don’t worry.”

The voices float through the darkness before Peter really comes to. He recognizes them, but in the haze of his mind, he can’t place them. One is young, concerned; the other is at the same time gruff and gentle. Slowly, very slowly, Peter’s senses come back to him and he opens his eyes.

He’s in the nurse’s office again, lying on the same uncomfortable bed as before. The only difference between last time and this time is that May’s presence has been replaced by two very unexpected guests.

“Morgan?” he asks as he props himself up on the bed, still groggy and exhausted. “Happy? What are you—”

Morgan cuts him off when she hops onto the bed with him and plants herself in his lap. Her tiny arms wrap around his neck. “We’re here to rescue you!”

“Are you now?” Peter chuckles, holding onto her tightly, but he’s still confused. He looks at Happy for confirmation.

“May couldn’t get out of work so they called Pepper,” Happy explains with a shrug. “I was watching this one—” he points at Morgan— “but Pep couldn’t leave either, so you’re stuck with us. Soon as the nurse comes back we’re taking you home.”

Pulling away slightly, Morgan fixes Peter with those big brown eyes and asks, “Did you hurted yourself, Petey?”

“No, Mo, I’m—I’m good,” he assures her, and when she smiles he feels his face light up as well. Then the rest of Happy’s words sink in. His eyebrows knit together. “Wait, you said you’re taking me home?”

“Nurse’s orders,” Happy says.

“But—But it wasn’t a big deal!” Peter stammers. “I feel better already, I swear. Plus I gotta get back to class!”

“You know the new rules, Mr. Parker,” the nurse admonishes as she walks into the room, clipboard in hand. “Anyone who has a triggered panic attack or anxiety attack must be sent home for the rest of the day. No exceptions.”

Peter tries to protest, but one sharp look effectively shuts him up. Shifting so Morgan can sit more comfortably on his legs, he listens as the nurse tells him everything he should and shouldn’t do when he gets home, as if he didn’t hear all of it the last time he was there.

“Have you seen one of the counselors yet?” she asks.

He nods. The nurse’s eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe him.

“I have, I swear!” Peter says. “Ask them—talk to Dr. Michaels, he’ll back me up!”

Though her face still screams skepticism, she drops the subject and finally, _finally_ , lets him leave with Happy and Morgan. Morgan’s got his hand in a vice grip as they walk to his locker to grab his books. Not that Peter minds. Mr. Stark’s words from his dream echo in his mind and he holds her hand a little tighter.

If Morgan notices, she doesn’t say anything.

🕸⎊🕸

Dr. Michaels takes the news with a small smile.

“It’s totally normal for you to still experience panic attacks while you’re in therapy, Peter,” he explains. “This is heavy stuff. You’re not going to magically get over it just because you’ve talked about it a couple of times.”

“I know, it’s just—” Peter lets out a groan and drops his head into his hands. “It’s frustrating.”

Dr. Michaels hums in agreement. A silence settles between them for a moment. Then he asks, “Who’s Morgan? You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“Oh, she’s my—well, it’s kinda complicated,” Peter says, lifting his head up. He grins, thinking about the rambunctious five-year-old who had captured his heart. “She’s Mr. Stark’s daughter, so she’s kinda like my little sister, in a way. That’s what Mr. Stark wanted. He told me to take care of her for him.”

“And have you been taking care of her?”

“As much as I can, yeah,” Peter answers. “I don’t get to see her that often.”

“Would you say she motivates you?” Dr. Michaels asks.

Peter nods. “Definitely.”

“You want her to look at you and see someone who’s strong and confident? Someone she can rely on?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” says Dr. Michaels. “Use that, Peter. Use Morgan to push you toward your goal. If you feel like you can’t heal for yourself, learn to heal for her. To find healthy ways to cope with your nightmares so you can be there for her when she needs you. Do you think you can do that?”

Determination colors his features as Peter looks at the man across from him. He’ll do anything for Morgan.

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Michaels grins. “Then let’s start, shall we?”


End file.
